


Reaped

by boobooboo888



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boobooboo888/pseuds/boobooboo888
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>My name is Peeta Mellark. I am 16 years old. I was reaped for the 74th Hunger Games. I say goodbye to my mother, my brothers, my father. I walk to the door and follow the Peacekeepers into the hall. As I cross the threshold, I force myself to breathe deeply and calmly. Everything changes now.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

>>>\-------->

The door shuts with a snap. I have just said goodbye to my mother and my brothers. They have spoken their last words to me; they are not words meant to comfort or to reassure, but words of closure. I can't recall anything of those moments with my family right now. Their words don't stick in my head. What is there to say to each other in the last days of my life?

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, leaning forward and forcing myself to take deep, steadying breaths. The numbness that overtook me earlier is slowly giving way to the thin curl of hysteria rising in my chest. 

Unbidden, I hear my name called out over and over again, I feel my feet moving me up and across the stage, I remember the thrilling shock of hearing that high Capitol accent announce my fate. Most of all, I hear her desperate screams, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" and feel the crushing horror that follows.

I do not think about the fact that I can't imagine my own brother volunteering for me. There is barely room in my head to admire her for sacrificing herself for her beloved sister. All I can think about is the knee-in-the-gut feeling that she is up for slaughter just as much as I am now. Maybe she has better odds than I do; my mother certainly thinks so. My mind doesn't dwell on that either. I am scattered and spinning and sick.

I see her face a thousand times, determined, driven, hard and fierce. I see her eyes, a battleground of terror and inexorable protectiveness. All at once my heart thuds with same guilt and frustration I have felt for years, that I should have talked to her, said something, done something.

The door opens again and I look up, startled, certain it's the Peacekeepers coming to take me away. My father stands there, looking at me with an expression I can't quite decipher. He raised me to be strong, gentle, and loyal. He raised me to work hard and love selflessly. He raised me to press on in the face of adversity and darkness.

"Dad." My voice is tenuous and sounds small in the stillness of the room. He steps towards me and pulls me into a strong hug. "It's her-" I say desperately, and he grips my arms tightly.

"I know," he says. He understands. We are still like that for several long moments. I stare over his shoulder at the small window high on the wall, thinking of the countryside I will never see again, thinking of the girl I love and have never been able to hold. As I reel from the overwhelming unfairness of it all, I allow myself a final moment of luxury; I squeeze my eyes tight as silent tears flow.

Our three minutes pass, a tiny eternity, and my dad releases me from his embrace. He holds me at arm's length and we look at each other for one final, long moment. There are too many feelings between us, and not enough words. Not enough time. In the steady gaze of his eyes, I feel that I am everything all at once, a conflicting jumble of memories and ill-fated possibilities, of Peetas past, present, and potential. I am still the baby of the family, happy and sweet, being led by the hand to my first day of school, my father kneeling next to me and pointing, "See that little girl?" The guard standing in the doorway reminds us that this is the last moment of that childhood. I am a soldier being led to war; in this moment I must become a man, or die a child, miles from home.

What words can now be said to change my fate or soothe my heart? He offers none. He does not say, _everything will be okay_. He does not promise, _I'll see you soon _. Just one nod, his eyes never leaving mine. In them I read everything I need. _I love you. I'm proud of you. I believe in you. _I take a deep breath and return his nod. I walk to the door and follow the Peacekeepers into the hall. As I cross the threshold, I force myself to breathe deeply and calmly. Everything changes now.____

>>>\-------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own _The Hunger Games_ in any capacity, nor do I profit financially in any capacity from the writing and posting of this fic.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the reaping, Peeta boards the train bound for the Capitol, where he has an enlightening conversation with Effie and strategizes ways to motivate Haymitch into mentoring him and Katniss.

>>>\-------->

We are traveling in style to the Capitol. Effie Trinket is in her element as tour guide, eager to show off the opulence of the train. I lose count of how many attendants and guards we pass; how can it take so many people to transport two teenagers? I wonder if anyone has tried to escape before. I feel lost in my mind, frozen and frazzled. Katniss doesn’t acknowledge my presence, and I can’t think of anything to say, so I listen to Effie’s trilling voice and follow her mutely. She ends by showing us to our private chambers, insists we help ourselves to everything in the closets and drawers, and tells us to meet her for supper in an hour. I close the door behind me and sit on the edge of my bed, grateful for the silence. The rhythmic motion of the train is comforting. I draw back the curtains and watch the changing landscape beyond the windows as I try to organize my thoughts. 

I tell myself not to panic. Giving into the fear won’t achieve anything. I force myself to breathe in, breathe out. What’s done is done. Breathe in, breathe out. What I need is a plan. I don’t expect to win, and given what I have seen in past Games, I don’t know that I want to win anyway. But I refuse to spend my last few days cowering and fretting. I stand up from the bed, resolved. I spend several awestruck moments absorbing the elegance of the bathroom, which is nicer than the fanciest room in the Justice Building in District 12. I shower, wash the gel and sweat from my hair, and dress in the only halfway decent outfit I can find in a closet that is larger than my bedroom back home. I decide to seek out once last glance of my homeland and leave my room in search of the end car.

I step into the hallway and am instantly disoriented. Each direction looks identical. I set off in one direction and ask the first Capitol attendant I encounter. The attendant gestures frantically and shakes his head apologetically. I worry that I have broken some unknown rule about acceptable conversation and try to salvage the exchange, but the man puts a hand to his throat and slowly shakes his head once more. I stare at him for a moment until realization dawns. He must be an Avox. I have heard rumors of these people, enemies of the state who have their tongues cut out and are then forced into servitude for the Capitol. I was hoping it was just a rumor. “I’m sorry,” I babble. “To have bothered you. I’m sorry.” As I continue down the passageway I wonder what this kind-looking man could possibly have done to warrant such punishment. My thoughts are interrupted when I suddenly encounter Effie Trinket. 

“Peeta!” she cries. “Lovely. Do you need anything?” I shake my head. “Are you enjoying your accommodations? It must be just like a vacation for you.”

I’m not sure how to respond. In what world would I consider being reaped a vacation, no matter how nice the train is? It takes me a moment to answer her. “Yes, everything is fine. Thank you.” The words feel stilted and mechanical, but Effie seems pleased. I mention the end car and she offers to escort me. She trots along at my side, towering above me in her glittering heels.

“If you’re impressed by this, just wait until you see the Capitol. You’ll love it. It is much nicer than District 12. Then again, most places are. It’s not very clean, is it? Still I’m sure they try. The Capitol has made a commitment to have the very best of everything. You are very, very fortunate for this opportunity.” I am still completely bowled over by Effie’s attitude. She can’t possibly be serious, and yet she appears completely sincere. As we walk and she details for me the luxury and grandeur of the city, I begin to understand that she genuinely means no offense. Her blithe dismissal of District 12 is not intended as a personal slight, and her perception of a visit to the Capitol being a treat is separate in her mind from the inevitable death sentence that follows. 

“Yes, absolutely,” I reply. “If it’s anything at all like this, I will be very impressed.” I have a moment of gratitude for my upbringing working in the bakery. It may not have prepared me for the Arena, but it did teach me how to make small talk.

“I must say, your attitude is refreshing, Peeta,” Effie continues delightedly. “Most of the Tributes from District 12 are so distraught and panicked, they don’t really take advantage of their time here. It really is a shame.” My ears prick up at the mention of former tributes. I ignore the pang of sadness I feel, remembering all the kids from 12 who have been reaped before me, and shove aside the anxiety threatening to resurface. It occurs to me that as clueless as she may appear, Effie is actually a wealth of knowledge.

“Of course,” I agree. “That is a shame.” 

“I don’t think it’s too much to ask that Tributes put their best foot forward, do you? There’s so much excitement surrounding the Games, it’s practically infectious! My Tributes never seem to indulge in the celebration. I can’t understand why.” I shudder for a moment, murmuring my agreement, and mull over her words. The Capitol audience does not see tragedy in the reaping; they see excitement, possibility, opportunity. They expect the Tributes to see it the same way. Theirs may be a skewed perspective, but it bears remembering. Aside from your strength and wits in the Arena, sponsorship is the main element that propels a Tribute to victory. In order to have any shot at all at survival, I will need to be seen as more than a scared child. I need to play their game, or be consumed by the game.

“Well, here we are.” Effie ushers me into the end car with the wide wall of plate glass windows. I can see the last blue ridges of the mountains sprawled out along the horizon as we hurtle along at 250 miles an hour. Effie excuses herself to check on dinner, and reminds me not to be late. 

A plush bench runs along the windows. I sit and watch the world disappear as we rush towards the center of the continent. Effie’s words have given me much to think about in how I will present myself in the following days. Next I will need to speak with Haymitch for advice on how to fight and survive in the Arena; probably the sooner the better.

When I think it must be nearly suppertime, I leave to find the dining car. I arrive to find Haymitch helping himself to the bar. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, so I clear my throat to announce myself. When he continues rummaging, I try again. “Dinner’s soon.” He grunts noncommittally. “I was hoping to talk to you about strategies. For the Arena, I mean.” A few more moments pass, and I ask, “Are you even listening to me?”

He turns then, opting for a full bottle of dark liquor. “I’m going to take a nap,” he says, and staggers out of the car. So much for strategizing over dinner.

I take a seat at the table, set for four but long enough to accommodate nearly twice that many people. I roll my eyes at the folly of placing such an oversized table in train car; apparently this is the Capitol’s way. I am joined shortly by Effie and Katniss. “Where’s Haymitch?” Effie asks. I try to hide my grimace when I tell her he has stepped out for a nap. She smiles brightly and seems pleased to have a break from his presence. Haymitch Abernathy and Effie Trinket have been fixtures of the reaping since I can remember. I have never spent much time trying to figure out their relationship, although it does not surprise me that her bubbly demeanor and his drunken grouchiness clash.

Our attendants serve us course after course of piping hot food. Having spent much of my life in a kitchen I am accustomed to eating well, but I have never eaten like this. At this moment, I am totally comfortable observing Effie’s advice to take advantage of the luxury. I eat quickly and eagerly; Katniss, across the table, is doing the same. I assume this is also the best she has ever eaten. The thought makes me sad, but I do not have time to dwell on it because Effie chooses that moment to remark upon our good manners. She mentions the previous tributes and how sloppily they ate. I hear a clink as Katniss drops her spoon in surprise. She narrows her eyes at Effie (who, bless her, does not notice, and continues on with her conversation) and shoves her silverware away; she finishes her meal entirely with her hands, tugging on the tablecloth to use as a napkin. Effie does notice this and simmers in silent disapproval. I cough to disguise my laughter. 

Once our plates are cleared, Katniss and I sit swaying at the table. My body is not used to the rich food, and I fear my eagerness may soon prove disastrous. Katniss looks the way I feel. Effie shoos us to another car where we watch the televised recap of the reaping in other districts. I lean in to size up the other Tributes. There are no surprises in Districts 1, 2, or 4. All of them are large, menacing, determined volunteers. The poorer districts further out produce Tributes who are young, thin, shocked. Katniss seems uninterested in the recap until the girl from District 11 is called. She is young, very young; she must be 12, although she looks much younger. Katniss sits up and stares at the girl, suddenly alert. No one volunteers to take her place. Not since District 4 does anyone volunteer; not until Katniss. The desperation in her voice lances through me again, raising goosebumps along the back of my neck.

Effie seems to have forgiven Katniss’s earlier rudeness for the moment and leans towards her with a smile. “I think the sponsors will be very pleased to see such enthusiasm from you.” I do not notice Katniss’s response; I am distracted by Haymitch’s drunken tumble from the stage. I watch Effie draw my name from the bowl, I watch myself stumble up the stairs and onto the stage. I shake Katniss’s hand; for a moment I can still feel the ghost impression of her palm against mine. I am distracted from this memory by Effie grumbling about Haymitch’s behavior.

I can’t help but laugh that Effie is even surprised by him anymore. Everyone in 12 expects it by now. “He was drunk. He’s drunk every year.”

“Every day,” Katniss adds, smirking.

Effie does not seem to see the humor in the situation. “Yes,” she hisses. “How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch may well be the difference between your life and your death!” She is gaining steam in her lecture, when Haymitch himself appears, slurring his words, vomiting spectacularly, and then doing a swan dive into his own sick.

“Laugh away!” Effie shrieks, leaping up from her seat and giving Haymitch a wide berth as she storms out of the car. Katniss and I look at each other helplessly for a moment before heaving him to his feet and beginning to drag him back through the train to his own compartment. We don’t speak as we steer him along the corridor. Personally, I am trying to limit the stench of vomit that I inhale.

Once back in his room, we bring him to the bathroom where he collapses under the spray of the shower. He doesn’t seem to care that he is still fully clothed and soaking wet. “I’ve got to be honest, I really didn’t expect to end this day cleaning up someone else’s vomit.” Katniss looks green again, as though her rich Capitol dinner may come back up soon. I offer to clean him up and she looks relieved.

“All right,” she says, backing towards the door. “I can send one of the Capitol people to help you.”

I feel a thrill of revulsion at the suggestion, and immediately feel guilty. I am still on edge from the encounter with the Avox earlier, and though I hate myself for it, I do not want the distraction right now. “No,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice even, “I don’t want them.” She nods and leaves.

I shut off the water and heave Haymitch to his feet. He is completely unconscious and deadweight. I drag him to his bed, remove his shoes, pants and shirt. I refuse to remove anything else, but the worst seems to be cleaned up. I return to the bathroom, fill a glass of water, and set it on the bedside table. I observe him for a moment before leaving. Despite the moment of shared levity earlier, Effie is not wrong. Haymitch is not only our mentor, he is the broker for any sponsorships we attract. If either of us has a shot at surviving, we will need a more put-together mentor.

I shake my head and retire to my room. I lay back on the bed, peering through the gap in the curtains at the blanket of stars in the sky overhead. I used to watch the stars through my bedroom window at home, the same stars I watch now. I shudder as a burst of longing sweeps over me. I miss my home. I blink back the tears that form. Enough of that, I tell myself. I keep looking at the stars as long as I can, only giving up once my eyelids become too heavy to stay open. As I drift to sleep, I imagine that the stars are watching over me.

>>>\-------->

The next morning I am up with the sun, a habit from the bakery. I wash, dress, and return to the dining car. To my surprise, Haymitch is already seated at the table with a steaming cup of coffee before him. He is glaring mutinously at Effie, who is looking smug and refusing to acknowledge him.

“Feeling better?” I ask him wryly, taking a seat across from him. Effie hustles out of the car, muttering something about fetching Katniss.

“Nothing like a little beauty sleep,” he replies. I reach for a mug and a pot of what I assume to be tea but reveals itself to be an unidentifiable steaming hot beverage. I sip warily from my mug and am pleasantly surprised. “It’s called hot chocolate,” Haymitch says gruffly. “A treat for the kiddos.” I ignore him and continue sipping the drink.

“So,” he says conversationally. “Did you remove my pants last night or was that Effie? Gotta say, I’m hoping it was Effie. No offense.”

I feel heat rush into my face. How in the world will I convince this man to take anything seriously? “I did that after you passed out,” I mutter grimly. He cackles obnoxiously. I reach for a roll and occupy myself slicing and buttering it. Just then Effie returns with Katniss; I ignore their curious expressions. 

Haymitch's lackluster approach to mentoring does not sit well with me. His grim humor is at best sardonic and at worst a complete disregard for our lives. Over breakfast Katniss and I gorge ourselves on fabulous Capitol food, while Haymitch maintains his eternal inebriation. As it becomes clear that he does not intend to impart any advisory wisdom, Katniss takes initiative.

“So you’re supposed to give us advice,” she says.

"Here's some advice," he sneers in response. "Stay alive."

“That’s very funny,” I snap. A generally calm and controlled person, I surprise everyone at the table, including myself, by smacking the drink out of Haymitch's hand. “Only not to us.” Haymitch’s fist catches me off-guard, and I topple from my chair and slam into the floor. As I blink stars from my eyes, I sense a flash of movement above, and when I push myself back to my feet, I see Katniss's knife sunk deep into the table, driven into the mahogany with anger and precision. I chalk up my impulsive reaction to the swirl of emotions threatening to boil over, as well as the blatant disrespect he is showing us. I can't begin to imagine what motivated Katniss's retaliation.

"Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?" Haymitch is observing us with what almost looks like admiration. I catch sight of our reflection in the mirror behind him. Katniss is panting angrily, glaring at Haymitch with hatred simmering in her eyes. I have never stood this close to her before. Now I can see first-hand what makes her such a formidable hunter. I have a bruise rising on my jaw, hot and painful. My eyes are dark and resentful; there is a blind determination in them, matching the fire that burns in my heart. Haymitch will not write us off as a lost cause. 

As Haymitch asks Katniss about her hunting skills, and I sink back into my seat, gritting my teeth against the throbbing pain on my jaw, I think that he is probably right. She is a hunter and a killer. I am a baker and have never used a weapon against anyone. But as I consider our reflection in the mirror, between my impulsive protectiveness and her cat-like reflexes, I see that we are indeed a pair of fighters.

Haymitch finally seems to take us seriously. He circles us, assessing our merits and strengths. “All right, I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t interfere with my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say.”

I spare only a moment to scoff at the fact that he has just made a deal with us to do exactly what he’s supposed to do anyway, albeit on his terms. I glance at Katniss, who does not seem to object. “Fine,” I tell him coldly. 

Katniss is eager to talk strategy, but Haymitch silences her. 

“One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we’ll be pulling into the station. You’ll be put into the hands of your stylists. You’re not going to like what they do to you, but no matter what it is, don’t resist.” Katniss begins to protest. “No buts. Don’t resist.”

We are in the outskirts of the Capitol, and presumably he is hoping to finish one last bottle of liquor before we arrive. He disappears to drink in peace, leaving Katniss and I alone in the car. I am just turning to ask her opinion of Haymitch’s deal when everything goes dark. We must be in the mountain tunnels that lead to the city. In the dim light I see that Katniss’s profile has gone tense. Nerves about our arrival, I guess.

The train emerges again into the light and we are drawn to the window. We press our faces to the glass, gaping at the glittering, technicolor splendor of the Capitol. The train snakes through the city, and we are soon pulling into the station. The crowds at the train station in 12 are nothing compared to the swarms of people engulfing the platform. We are spotted by waiting citizens, who begin to cheer and wave at us. My plan begins now, I think. I wave and smile at them. Katniss looks at me like I’ve grown a third head. I shrug and explain, “Who knows? One of them may be rich.” She doesn’t seem convinced. In fact, she seems wary of me as ever.

As we disembark from the train, Effie parades before us, leading us through the throngs of spectators to a private car with tinted windows. We are shuttled across the city to the Training Center, which will be our home for the next week. Effie ushers us out of the car with great urgency to deliver us into the magical hands of our stylists. Katniss is led away in one direction by a man with violent orange hair. I am greeted by a woman with shimmery purple skin who rasps, “Come with me. Portia wants to see you.”

>>>\-------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own _The Hunger Games_ in any capacity, nor do I profit financially in any capacity from the writing and posting of this fic. Also, I have included dialogue from _The Hunger Games_ in a fastidious effort to remain canon-compliant. All hail Suzanne Collins.


End file.
